


The Visitor

by Tahiru (Gearspike)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Play, BDSM, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Interspecies Sex, M/M, Non-Anthro, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Senpai Notice Me, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Voyeurism, fantastic beasts and where to bone them, how to restrain your dragon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24879280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gearspike/pseuds/Tahiru
Summary: Rus is part of a collection of intelligent fantasy creatures kept by a dragon who's into interspecies sex. Another dragon who shares that interest comes calling one day, and limits get tested.
Relationships: dragon / various other fantasy creatures
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. Preparations

**Author's Note:**

> Tagged "Rape / Non-Con" for heavily implied magical mind control, for a BDSM scene that turns way heavier than the bottom expected, and for wildly unequal power relationships throughout.
> 
> Most of the action is M/M, though there is incidental F/M and the implication of "every possible combination of F/M/non-binary/other" in the background.
> 
> This is a long sex scene more than it is a story. It does not have a three-act structure. It is not The Hero's Journey. But it does have a character you (hopefully) care about undergoing a potentially transformative experience.
> 
> Division into chapters is largely arbitrary, meant to give your scrolly wheel a break if you're reading in-browser.
> 
> I welcome constructive criticism. This is my first time posting smutty stuff for public consumption. Let me know what you liked and what didn't work for you -- I want to improve. (Just to be clear: I am looking for critique, not encouragement.)

Rus heard the servant's approach, the quiet click of claws on the stones of the path, but kept reading. It was not until the kobold called out to him that Rus noted his place, closed his book and placed it gently on the smooth stone bench. Only then did he turn his gaze -- showing what he hoped was an appropriate mixture of boredom and contempt -- to the small, nervous messenger seeking his attention.

The kobold was clearly fearful, small clawed hands fidgeting with the hem of its simple white robe. A new servant, or at least one newly promoted to the task of running messages to the Dragon's... pets.

Rus was a wingless drake, a four-limbed reptilian creature nearly the size of a small Dragon, and much alike in form. He had an angular horned head with a long tapered muzzle, not nearly so elegant as a that of a Dragon, but he was obviously no mere lizard. His hide was smooth and leathery, very unlike the overlapping scales of his lord. Rus' sleek form was an uneven, muddy brownish green, with a lighter pearlescent tan on his belly, throat and the underside of his tail. (True Dragons tended toward strong colors. Rus' lord had sparkling scales of deepest emerald green, pure and perfect.)

While Rus hadn't the radiant presence of a Dragon, he knew he was still intimidating to a creature like this kobold. He had a predator's body, well-defined muscles (though he carefully cultivated the hint of softness his Dragon preferred) and sharp curved claws (four on each paw, counting the thumb). He was big enough to eat the kobold in two messy bites, though he'd never disappoint his Dragon by behaving in such a way.

He smiled, showing a hint of sharp teeth, and said "Speak." He put a little more subsonic rumble into the word than was strictly necessary. He wouldn't mistreat the kobolds; they too were the property of the Dragon. But a little harmless amusement at their expense was surely acceptable.

The messenger took an involuntary step back, then stammered, "The Great... The Great Dragon commands your presence." The rest of the words tumbled out in a rush. "You are to go to the third room on the south wall to be made ready."

Rus nodded, stretched languidly and rose. It took some effort to conceal his delight and anticipation, but he was too proud to show the kobold anything other than bored indifference. The messenger likely didn't even understand what those instructions implied.

Rus walked past the trembling kobold, feeling a trace of guilt for having frightened him. The drake then turned and said (in a what he intended as a more kindly tone), "Return the book to my chamber. It may rain this afternoon. Then you are dismissed." He resumed his walk down the path, toward the rock wall bordering the south edge of the grassy commons.

It was a sunny morning, bright and cool, with a breeze carrying the scents of the end of summer. As Rus walked briskly across the common area, he could see other beasts in the Dragon's menagerie: a pair of drakes like himself, bathing in the pools; a wyvern flying overhead; a huge white stag lounging in the grass. All bore a collar like the one Rus wore at the base of long neck: a band of polished black metal, carved with arcane patterns. The collar was a reassuring weight, a symbol of Rus' devotion to his Dragon and a conduit for the Dragon's magic. Rus caressed it with the pad of one of his clawed fingers, and felt a flush of pride.

He knew there were many other such beasts elsewhere: asleep in their quarters, at the hunting grounds, or occupied with practice and study in private spaces dedicated to those tasks. There were rumors -- though Rus did not credit them -- the Dragon kept other creatures as well, untamed and aggressive, locked away in secret.

Here and there a food-beast wandered the commons, unafraid. These were calm and well-trained, kept for decoration and not for eating. (At least, they weren't there for those like Rus to eat. The Dragon, once in a great while, when in a particular mood, certainly did so.)

Kobold servants hurried along the paths, on errands Rus neither knew nor cared to know. They were quick enough to step out of his way when he approached.

Rus paused, taking a long drink from one of the fountains. The water was fresh and had a faint, pleasing mineral taste. He knew it might be some time before he got another chance to quench his thirst. He walked quickly onward, thinking about what was to come. His impulse was to break into a run, but he had his pride, and wanted to savor the moment. The preparations could be somewhat... tedious, but oh, what would come after.

* * *

Rus did not head directly to the third south cave; he knew he was expected to be bathed first. He liked to think of himself as fastidiously clean, and had already washed earlier that day -- as he did every morning -- but it had been just a quick rinse in one of the cold outdoor pools. Today's activities called for something far more thorough.

His long strides brought him to the baths in a few minutes. A wide opening was cut in the cliff-face, open to the commons on one side. Within were several pools and a small waterfall. The water was heated and made to flow by some magic. Rus did not know the details, but the water was always looked clean and smelled fresh.

He stepped inside, eyes adjusting rapidly to the dimmer light. The first pool was unoccupied, so he stepped forward into the water. It was pleasantly warm, though it came only up to his knees. He carefully lowered himself down to his belly, taking care not to splash. It was too shallow for him to submerge entirely.

He nodded to the four kobold attendants assigned to his pool, and they obediently stepped forward, wading through water up almost to their shoulders. They bore brushes, sponges and containers of soap. Instead of the usual servants' robes, they wore white cords around their waists, from which small rectangles of cloth draped in front and behind.

They approached him warily, and began their work, scrubbing gingerly at first, then more firmly. The stiff bristles of the soapy brushes felt somewhat scratchy -- Rus' hide was thick and tough, but still sensitive. They washed him methodically, starting with his back and flanks. Rus relaxed, enjoying the sensations and daydreaming about other days that had begun like this.

When they had thoroughly washed all within reach, the servants took two steps back and waited expectantly. Rus slowly, carefully rolled onto his side, then his back. The bathing pool had a platform of smooth, curved stone on the side, perfect for him to rest his head above the water.

The servants stepped back in and began their work. Chest, belly, neck and tail were soaped and scrubbed with stiff brushes. The brushes on the pads of his hind-paws tickled fiercely, but Rus endured it without complaint -- he must be made completely clean. Milder soap and soft cloth was used on his face, around the vent at the base of his tail, then around and within the separate genital slit at the bottom of his belly. Rus tried not to squirm as his slit was pulled open and a soft cloth cleaned the soft flesh inside. This was just a wash, all practical efficiency, not for gratification.

When Rus had been washed nose to tail-tip, the kobolds climbed out of the pool, taking their tools with them. Rus waited until they were out of the way, then rolled over, rose to his feet and stepped out. He walked to the waterfall and stood under the falling water. It was cooler than the bath, and pleasingly forceful. It was quick work to rinse all traces of soap away. When he was done, three other white-robed kobolds toweled him dry.

Adjacent to the bath-hall was another chamber, to which Rus was obliged to go next. There, his teeth were cleaned and his tongue scraped, and he was given a puck of something chalky to chew that tasted overwhelmingly of mint. A brief inconvenience, but it felt good knowing his mouth was as clean as his hide. He left, finally headed for three south. As he walked, the warm sun and gentle breeze dried the last traces of moisture from the bath.

* * *

It was time.

Rus reflexively checked. Yes, there was the 'Ⅲ' rune carved over the rounded cave opening. There were six such tunnels in all, and a mistake here wouldn't do at all. Warm light from magical glows lit the tunnel beyond, far dimmer than the daylight but plenty bright for Rus to see clearly. A jog in the tunnel a short distance in blocked the line of sight from the commons. Rus paused, exhaling sharply. He knew in general terms what to expect, but there were always surprises. Variety.

He stepped into the tunnel. The curved peak was almost twice his height, even as he walked with head held high. He turned the corner, and stepped into an oval chamber, maybe thrice as wide as the length of Rus' body. The walls and floor were polished stone, oddly without seam or joint. The floor sloped ever so slightly toward a drain in the center. Heavy rings of black iron were set into the floor and walls at intervals.

Inside stood six white-robed kobolds, three on each side of the room, eyes cast respectfully down. In the center, a red-robed kobold sorcerer held his metal staff of office, and met Rus' gaze calmly.

The sorcerers were unlike their peers. The Dragon used them as vessels for his magic, and they were changed by it. They were bigger, stronger, and had striking red eyes with slit pupils instead of the featureless brown beads of lesser kobolds. And they knew no fear of pleasure-beasts like Rus, none at all.

Drake and sorcerer regarded one another. The silence grew heavy before Rus spoke. "What does the Dragon desire?" The words were customary, almost a ritual. Rus had spoken them many times, but what would come next was deliciously uncertain.

The sorcerer did not answer, but turned to the servants and beckoned with his staff. Around the walls of the room, well-organized racks held a wide variety of leather harnesses and straps, polished silver buckles and implements of black metal. The kobolds had nimble hands, and among them were skilled smiths, leather-workers and tinkers. They delighted in inventing new ways to bind, decorate, and stimulate. The Dragon encouraged them to invent new uses to which his beasts of pleasure could be put.

Rus let his eyes wander the collection, trying to guess at the purpose of those toys he didn't recognize, what sort of creature they might fit and how, which of them he might be made to wear. He felt his maleness begin to peek out of the slit on his belly, and knew his growing arousal would surely be obvious to those watching.

Two of the servants collected an elaborate object, mostly of black leather, polished to a glossy shine. A thick silver rod was bound to it at two points. They unfolded it and held it up, one on each side. Rus recognized it then as a mask -- and a new one, not one he'd worn before. It had large patches that would completely cover his eyes, and straps for behind his head and to encircle his long muzzle. The rod -- to fit between his jaws like a bit? And the steel ring near the tip of the muzzle, surely meant to be tied or chained to limit the movement of his head?

The sorcerer nodded to the servants holding the mask, then turned back to Rus. "Lower your head, and part your jaws. Now." The voice was still a high-pitched kobold squeak, but seemed somehow to carry a distant echo of the Dragon's authority. Rus slowly knelt, and bent his neck to place his head within easy reach of the servants holding the mask. He licked his lips and opened his jaws, feeling a flash of satisfaction at how the servants flinched to be so close to his teeth.

With careful, choreographed movements, they eased the mask over Rus' muzzle and head. The metal bar tapping softly against his teeth as they moved it into position was a strange sensation. It came to rest at the back of his mouth, near the hinge of his jaw, behind his rearmost teeth. The mask covered his eyes, blocking out every trace of vision. The fit was so perfect, it had to have been custom-made for Rus and no other. He wondered at how the kobolds had crafted it without taking his measurements or trying the fit.

"Close your jaws slowly. Now." The sorcerer was right next to Rus' ear, speaking quietly and insistently. Rus did so, trapping the metal bit at the back of his mouth. It wasn't painful or even uncomfortable, but it was impossible to ignore. Every slight motion brought pressure on the soft flesh of his gums, his tongue and the corners of his mouth.

The scent of the leather was strong in Rus' nostrils. It was a clean, familiar smell that brought with it many memories. Memories of pleasure and lust. His cock slid further out of the genital slit on his belly. He didn't want for self-control, but the anticipation was so strong. Rus wondered idly from what creature the leather had come. It was too thick to be any food-beast he knew of, but was still supple and butter-soft against his skin. Was it drake-skin?

He felt the dextrous hands of the servants fastening the straps and making adjustments. First, they buckled the mask in place behind his head. The pressure was firm but not tight, and felt as though there were no way it could slip or shift. Rus knew he would not be freeing himself, at least not without tearing the hood away with his claws -- an unthinkable waste of a lovely gift from his Dragon.

The straps around his long muzzle were next, binding his jaws tightly shut. He could not speak nor even cry out loudly, nor could he breathe save through his nostrils. He could see nothing. The vulnerability was a little frightening and altogether delicious.

There was a clink of metal, not loud but very distinct. Rus both heard it and felt it through the straps going around his jaws and over the bridge of his nose. Before it really registered, he heard and felt the snap of a fastener, bound now to the metal ring at the tip of his muzzle. There was a tug and the sorcerer's voice, almost a whisper: "Down."

Rus let the pull on his mask guide him forward and down to the floor. He knew the kobolds must have a cable going from his nose to one of the rings set into the floor. Sure enough, he soon felt the stone under his chin, and the colder metal of the fitting to which he was bound. There was another click, and the pull ceased. Rus settled into a more comfortable position on his belly, rather than kneeling with his neck awkwardly bent. He gave a slight, experimental tug with his head and there was no give. The cable must secured in place by some mechanism.

They left him there in silence for a couple of minutes, though to Rus it seemed longer. He shifted, moving so his erection wasn't rubbing against the hard stone, wondering if the delay was just to heighten his anticipation or for some other purpose. Then, the voice came again: "Left forepaw up. Hand limp." He moved to comply, balancing awkwardly on his other forearm and his chin. The tiny hands of the kobolds grasped his much larger paw. A familiar roll of leather was pressed into his palm, and he allowed his fingers to be curled around it.

A thick leather mitten was then bound around Rus' left paw, holding it balled into a first, claws curled back around into the roll of leather. He recognized it as a device he'd been made to wear at times in the past, though never before had it put on him while he was sightless, head bound to the floor. The was some fussing with straps and buckles: around his paw, around his wrist, and up his forelimb. The soft close-fitting leather came up nearly to his elbow. He knew from memory there was another metal ring on the glove so his paw could be bound; sure enough, it was soon made fast to the same ring holding down Rus' head.

The process was repeated with his right paw, though balancing was even more clumsy with the reduced range of motion. He was truly bound, now beyond any hope of freeing himself, helpless. Drakes did not typically wear clothing, and it wouldn't have occurred to Rus to feel awkward about nakedness. But now, with his face and forelimbs covered, the rest of his body felt weirdly exposed and... accessible. Another minute passed, as the sensation sank in, growing ever more acute.

The brush of the sorcerer's hand across Rus' bare flank was unexpected. It was presumptuous and intrusive, overly familiar, and lingered long enough that those things were clearly deliberate. Startled, Rus tried to jerk his head around, only for it to be stopped short by the bindings. His irritated vocalization came out as a muffled grunt, barely audible around the bit in his mouth. Even as he felt a flash of irritation, Rus knew: This was part of the game. This was part of the experience his Dragon had devised for him. The anger, the embarrassment, the feelings of helpless uncertainty, even the hint of fear -- these all mixed with the pleasure and craving for touch just as they were meant to.

The sorcerer drew his hand languorously across Rus' belly, then rested a palm on his shoulder. Rus was breathing roughly through his nostrils, and recoiled a little from the touch even as he gave an involuntary gasp of pleasure. He felt each tiny claw distinctly as the sorcerer drummed his fingers on Rus' hide.

There were slow footsteps, a brush of fabric, and the sorcerer's hand rested on the side of Rus' neck, just below the jaw. Rus felt the sorcerer's breath in his ear, then heard a hissing whisper: "Breathe in the sssmoke. It will make this... easier."


	2. Going Forth

Rus heard the incense burner open near his nose, and felt the heat radiating from it, and took a deep, slow breath. The scent was strong, and somehow both familiar and always-new. It was wood smoke and rain and hot metal, yet like none of these. His head swam, and Rus felt his muscles relax as any trace of apprehension vanished. He knew from experience the effect would only last a few minutes, but that should suffice.

Rus knew what was to come. It had been part of the preparations nearly every time he served, and the only one he had never learned to enjoy. This was a necessity for hygiene, not an act of pleasure. He accepted it without complaint, a minor sacrifice to better please his Dragon.

The sorcerer stood and stepped back. "Roll onto your right side. Now." Rus obeyed, shuffling his bindings around until he could lie on his side without straining. "Draw you left knee up to your belly, and lift your tail."

With a slight hesitation that betrayed his reluctance, Rus did so, grateful for the intoxicating incense. There was the sound of the cork being taken from a bottle, and the familiar scent of oil. There was a touch at his vent, then a pressure. Rus tried to relax as the rounded end of the sorcerer's staff pushed inside him. First, the width of a claw, then withdrawing before sliding deep. The sorcerer spoke, in the language of magic, in a voice not his own. Rus knew what to expect, but would never grow accustomed to it.

A horrible uncanny wrongness roiled through Rus' bowels. It could not be said to be painful, not in the usual sense of that word, but was certainly profoundly unpleasant, like a million angry beetles skittering up through his guts. Rus exhaled in a sharp gasp, and heard the binding rings clink as he pulled against them in reflex. In a dozen heartbeats it was over. His digestive tract was now immaculately clean and utterly empty. Nothing unpleasant was left in him that could offend even the most sensitive the nose or tongue. He barely felt the slim staff being withdrawn.

"There, not ssssso bad?" the sorcerer hissed, rhetorically. There was no command there to be obeyed, so Rus ignored him, savoring the emptiness of his gut and feeling relief that this step was over. Though there were never any guarantees, past experience suggested the rest of the preparation would be pleasant.

* * *

Rus' forepaws remained bound in the gloves, but were unchained from the ring in the floor, and he was given a bit of slack in the cable holding his head in place. He was made to lie on his belly, while the servants polished and oiled the scales of his back, flanks, legs and neck. Then, at a light prod on the shoulder from the sorcerer's staff, he rolled over, exposing his belly. The servants continued their work.

He reclined lazily, relishing the sensations. He typically liked to watch this part of the preparation, but having his eyes covered forced him to focus on the touch, sound and scent. Not knowing where the touch would come next made the familiar experience novel and intensely sensual. As the kobolds worked, Rus realized that this time, they were deliberately leaving the most sensitive parts of his body for last.

Chest and shoulders and throat were pleasant enough, but mostly just heightened Rus' anticipation and made him crave touch elsewhere. The bottoms of his hind paws were next. Rus didn't generally associate feet with eroticism like he knew others did, but having oils rubbed into the pads of his paws and between his toes, he could certainly see the appeal.

After his feet, they began working on his inner thighs, belly and the underside of his tail -- all six servants, all at once. Rus groaned in pleasure and writhed happily under their touch. His cock was fully everted from his genital slit. Both it and his vent ached for contact, but the servants carefully avoided those areas for now. Oiling his thighs and tail base went on and on, building desire and anticipation into desperate need.

Finally -- finally! -- a hand traced around his vent, the touch feather- light. He moaned, splayed his legs and tried to thrust into it. The touch withdrew, only to return as he relaxed. He gave himself over to passive pleasure, receiving stimulus without trying to exert control.

Gentle hands pulled at his genital slit from both sides, then pushed into him, around the hidden base of his maleness. Oiling, rubbing, the touch around his vent continuing all the while. Rus was on the very edge of climax, the limits of his self-control pushed to breaking, when he heard the sorcerer's voice: "We can't give you release. That privilege belongs to the Dragon." The sorcerer's staff touched his sternum, and his collar felt heavy and warm. The impending orgasm faded away, though what was being done to him felt no different, no less intensely erotic. Rus tried to catch his breath.

At last it was done, with a few lingering caresses of his oil-slick hide. But he was not yet told to rise. The sorcerer told him, in conversational tones, "The Dragon has commanded that you be oiled inside as well." Rus shivered, hungrily anticipating the things that implied lay in his future.

There was another scent of oil, warm and clearly distinct from the oil used on his scales. Rus could picture the oil bottle in his mind, like a wine-skin with a long rounded metal spout. It would have been kept in a bath of hot water until called for.

A bit of warm oil trickled down onto Rus' vent, not scalding but a good deal warmer than his own body temperature. He gave a little whimper of ecstasy -- and frustration; the sorcerer's magic still held his climax in check. The spout of the bottle played across his vent. Rus' body was hungry, needy, eager and he drew it inside himself easily as soon as any pressure was applied. Then, as a lubricious warmth and softness spread through his belly, Rus groaned. The oil was dispensed into him with calculated slowness, drawing out the pleasure. At last, the spout was withdrawn.

There was a long pause, then -- as Rus knew it would -- came the oiled hand of one of the servants, claws carefully trimmed and rounded. Rus took it into himself, breathing in hard gasps, concentrating on the feel of the oil being methodically messaged into the spaces within him, every side, as far as the servant's small arm could reach. The tide of his arousal swelled and crested against the wall of magic, then receded, time and again. When the job was done (too soon!), the hand withdrew.

Rus was trembling and panting for breath through his nose. They gave him several minutes to recover and relax. Surely the preparations were nearly done?

* * *

The sorcerer's hand came to rest on the underside of Rus' tail, near the base. He didn't recoil this time, but accepted the sensation gratefully. The familiar voice spoke, almost tauntingly: "We have a new plaything for you. Something to keep that hungry tailhole of yours occupied until it's needed for other things." The hand withdrew, and a there were sounds of quiet activity from elsewhere in the room.

He felt a servant step into the space between his left thigh and tail, then another on the other side. A third straddled Rus' tail, robes brushing him. What could they be doing? He was not left wondering for long.

A smooth, cool surface touched Rus' oil-slick vent. It felt heavy, like polished metal. He moaned, his vent clenching then relaxing, the strange object sliding across his sensitive skin. Then there came a gentle pressure, building gradually, helping Rus take the object inside himself. It was a sphere or egg, small enough for him to accommodate with little effort. His body tried to pull it deeper, but something resisted. Some manner of cord or cable? Yes, he could feel it now. More warm oil dripped onto him, impossibly decadent. Then, more cool metal?

The second ball was a good deal heavier and bigger around. Rus writhed, gasped and tried to relax. It took some pushing and stretching, but he was able to open around it, then gravity and his own muscles drew it in. The weight pressed down inside him, forcing him to experience a cascade of erotic sensations unlike any he'd previously known. The first sphere shifted deeper inside him, gliding against him with each involuntary movement. He realized the small moaning noises he'd been hearing were his own voice.

There was a third. The weight and the broadness of the curve made it feel impossible. Rus ground against it as the servants pressed down. He was stretched to the point of resistance, then discomfort. Just short of pain, he felt the taut skin of his vent slip over and around the widest point of the sphere, and it was inside him. So heavy, and he felt so full! Every motion revealed new, unexplored vistas of pleasure. The servants stepped away as he shifted and fidgeted.

But now there was another metal surface at his vent. Surely not another? Even in the stretching exercises in his training, Rus could not remember having taken anything larger. His concern lasted only a moment before he noticed the lack of weight, and the obviously different shape. This was a wide, flat plate of smooth metal. It could not enter him, and could be used later to pull the other objects out. He trembled a little to imagine how that would feel.

Rus tried to compose himself, steady his breathing, relax his twitching muscles. He must keep control, allow the preparations to be finished so he could serve his Dragon. There was the sound of a snap, then his head lolled to the side as the cable holding him was released. He had not realized he'd been straining against it.

* * *

"What a good pet you are. But you must stand. Now." Was there more Dragon behind the sorcerer's words than before? Rus was unsteady, shaking with the intensity of the the sensations he had just experienced -- was still experiencing. But it seemed like his body moved to obey even while his mind was still processing the words. He rolled, weights shifting and moving in lower abdomen. He tried to get his feet under him, and fumbled with the awkwardness of the paw-gloves.

As he stood, the string of balls under his tail shifted and rolled in a way that, in an instant, brought him almost to climax before the sensation hit the magical wall keeping him from release. The feeling rolled back gradually, echoing from every nerve. Rus arched his neck and made a sound between a moan and a growl. He could almost imagine the sorcerer's satisfied smirk.

The metal plate pulled against his vent had some sort of protruding ring or stud on the outer surface. If Rus tried to lower his tail, it would pinch -- not painfully, but uncomfortable in a way that promised to grow rapidly worse the longer it was ignored. He stood in the middle of the preparation chamber, hind feet wide apart, tail lifted lasciviously. His chest heaved with each deep, slow breath.

Rus heard movement from several points around the chamber. A cloth wiped away a few stray drops of oil that were sliding down his inner thigh. The mild contact felt overwhelmingly intense. There came a new odor, one Rus knew well: paint, a thin rust-colored stuff made with red ochre suspended in some sort of binder. His trainers had shown him it was safe to touch -- and lick. He could remember the flavor clearly, earthy and mineral, not especially appealing but nothing vile.

Something soft and damp brushed his flank: a paintbrush. The sensation was almost electric. Rus did not understand why the Dragon wanted his playthings to be thus decorated, and did not know the meanings of the symbols that were painted, but he loved and craved this ritual. The sensation of the brushes on his hide, the cool wetness of the paint and how it changed to a tightness as it dried, and more than anything the thought that the sight of him would better please the Dragon.

Though being painted was familiar, so much was different this time: the heavy toys, subtly moving inside him with each breath, the inability to see, having his jaws bound shut around the metal bit. Every few minutes, he would absentmindedly let his tail begin to relax, feel a pinch and lift it high once again.

It was hard for him to keep still and silent, but he did so, and enjoyed the small, careful brush-strokes on his hide. His flanks, shoulders, chest and the base of his neck above the collar all received decorative marks. Sometimes there was the sound of wood scraping the stone floor, as the servants moved the wooden platforms they needed to reach higher.

The final painting was on the underside of his tail, two handspans below his vent. It was slower, teasing, erotic, like the tongue of a lover. Rus gasped and trembled. He had no doubt it was the sorcerer holding the brush.

* * *

Bound, cleaned, oiled and painted, Rus stood waiting. Soon -- his sense of time was wildly askew -- there was the click of a metal clasp and a tug on his hood. The sorcerer spoke: "You have been made ready. Follow this one. Now." The pull came from behind him, and a leather lead touched his left shoulder. Rus turned carefully, partly to avoid crashing into the walls or the other servants with his tail, but also because of the heavy beads in his belly. It seems like every few breaths, he'd move in such a way that they'd bring him -- briefly -- to rock-hard arousal. Walking would be delicious agony, and he had a fair bit to do.

He was led -- at a kobold's walking pace, and in slow clumsy steps for Rus, out of the preparation cave. It was impossible to walk normally on the pads of his forepaws, so he was forced to bear some of the weight on his wrists. It didn't hurt, but it required him to take shorter strides and deliberately place his limbs with each step. Each time he moved his hips, the balls inside him would slide... press... click, driving him inexorably, maddeningly toward an orgasm that was always out of reach.

Rus felt the sun on his oiled hide. It seemed like it was directly overhead now. How long had he been in preparation? If it were noon, the commons would be far more busy than they'd been in the morning. He knew there were many eyes on him. The great hall where the Dragon usually took entertainment was on the opposite side of the common field from the preparation chambers, no doubt a deliberate choice. Beasts who were not on duty would often line the path, watching those who were summoned cross the field. Rus had done so countless times himself, savoring the thoughts of what awaited at the end of that walk, trying to catch a glimpse of each new accessory or toy, and speculating about what fresh pleasures had been devised.

Today, Rus knew, he was quite the spectacle. Blinded, following a servant at the end of a tether like a food animal, forepaws bound, tail high in the air with metal glinting at his vent, he was sure to attract attention. And his slow pace meant it would not be over quickly. Rus took a step, his cock slapping against his belly. It felt like he was dripping pre-ejaculatory fluid on the path. He heard his audience: a quick intake of breath to his left, some whispered conversation further along, shuffling of heavy feet a ways behind.

Let them watch. Let them watch, and wonder, and envy. He would be in the great chamber today, and those on the path must await their chance. They could only imagine what was in store for him; he would get to experience it. Rus was just as the Dragon wished him to be, and felt nothing but pride. An unfamiliar desire rose in him, to display himself in his current state to the other pets, to make them witness the privilege he was enjoying.

The crossing would have taken about five minutes at a normal walk. This time, it took at least thirty. Early on, he thought perhaps he could grow accustomed to the beads inside him or learn to somehow control the stimulation -- but it was not to be. The weights and slickness and length of the cords seemed to somehow ensure that the balls were always sliding inside him, never settling in place nor even moving in a way that was entirely predictable. He tried to enjoy the novel sensations, and set aside his frustration at being unable to finish. Surely once he'd... served, the Dragon would permit him release.

* * *

When he was starting to feel he could bear no more walking, Rus was finally led into shade and his lead went slack. The acoustics abruptly changed -- muffled, he knew, by tapestries hanging on the walls, then further within, thick carpets, cushions and furs on the floor. Even with the soft furnishings, he heard some creature in the distance cry out in passion, a wordless shout of unendurable pleasure, pain, or both. Rus held very still, trying to take a little respite from the relentless, fruitless arousal forced on him by his walk.

Gently, but with irresistible strength, something gripped the ring at the tip of his muzzle. There was a click, then the lead fell to the floor, metal clasp clattering on the tiles. Rus heard quick footsteps recede, as the kobold servant took its leave.

His head was pulled downward slowly, inexorably, until Rus' throat met a clawed hand under his chin. It gripped him, talons sharp against his skin but doing him no harm, not even a scratch. The thick scales felt warm -- hot, almost -- against Rus' throat. A beguiling voice, deep but feminine, spoke: "Such a pretty thing you are. It looks like you're ready for all sorts of fun." Each word was deliberate, distinct, calculated. Rus flushed at the praise.

This was one of the Great Dragon's personal attendants. Rus had seen them on some of his past visits. She was (he knew) dragon-like in form, a bit smaller than Rus and much lighter in build, slender and long in body, with a deep keeled chest. She was also vastly stronger than Rus, winged and capable of flight. She was not a true Dragon like Rus' lord, but was formidable and due respect and obedience. Her words were law, and carried the full authority of the Dragon. Her name was not a thing for mere beasts of pleasure to use or know.

The voice -- riveting, alien, tantalizingly Dragon-like -- spoke again, snapping Rus out of his reverie. "Let's get the dust off your feet so we can take you inside." Were he unbound, he'd be expected to perform this task unprompted and unassisted.

His forelimbs were lifted up, the road-dust wiped from the wrists on which he'd been made to walk, and what smelled like leather-polish rubbed into them. Each hind paw was raised in turn, as a farrier would do with a horse. The pads of his feet were cleaned with something moist and soft. sheepskin, perhaps? The motion shifted the metal weights in belly, and he shook as he fought to control his body.


	3. The Two Dragons

Rus was lead inside the main hall, not by his mask, but by a silken wing over his back, razor-sharp wing claw resting on his spine. The feeling was impossibly sensual; at once maddening and ecstatic. In the past, the attendants had always been aloof, remote and distant. To be touched like this by her, in a way that suggested tenderness, was odd and alarming -- and all the more desirable for so being.

Rugs and furs felt decadent under Rus' hind paws. He could see nothing, but his ears and nose told him the tale of sexual exercise elsewhere in the hall. The Dragon found commanding his pets to pleasure one another to be an amusing diversion, and he delighted in finding novel pairings and creative tasks to be performed. Faint odors of wine and incense, leather and oil hung in the air, proportions changing tantalizingly as they walked. The melange of scents and noises made it impossible for Rus to identify individuals, but it seemed like a goodly number of other creatures were there.

He was only dimly aware of direction and distance, but Rus sensed he was being led in a wide circle around the room. He was being paraded, tail held high as though he were presenting to a lover. Perhaps some of the other beasts would be intrigued or amused by the show, but he cared only that the sight of him would please the Dragon.

At last, Rus was halted atop what felt like a cushion or mattress, and eased down to a reclining position with the gentle touch of the attendant's impossibly strong hands. He lay on his back, belly exposed, luxuriating in the feeling of furs against his hide. The beads in his belly shifted, drawing a moan from Rus' bound muzzle and a trickle of pre-cum from his cock. (Fortunately, with sorcerous cleaning available, nobody had to worry about fluids on the furnishings.) The attendant withdrew, wordlessly.

There he lay, patiently aroused, savoring the moment but thirsty to learn what he would be made to do, or have done to him.

* * *

A cry of passion came from the middle distance that Rus immediately recognized as a she-gryphon -- her voice was quite distinct. She had been paired with him in training a number of times, as their relative sizes made Rus an interesting challenge for her. He remembered her smell, her taste, the slippery tightness of her leonine vulva as she worked to accommodate his girth. He recalled the mild mammalian warmth, the novel sensation of fur and feathers against his hide. She certainly seemed to be enjoying herself now. Rus smiled contentedly and rubbed his neck against the furs.

After a span of time (Rus could not begin to estimate how long), he heard and felt heavy footsteps drawing near. The Dragon! But something was different this time. What a strange gait. No... two sets of footsteps. And two voices: the Dragon he knew, and another Dragon-voice, deeper, less musical, maybe older? They were having a quiet conversation in their own ancient language.

Rus did not understand their words, but was desperately curious about the situation. He knew there were other Dragons, and that they would sometimes visit, but never in his memory had any Dragon but his lord been present in the pleasure-hall. The footsteps halted, what seemed like a short distance away.

Rus felt the cushions under him shift, then the attendant's voice, a sultry whisper, was at Rus' ear. He'd not heard her approach. "It's time for me to take those beads away." The tip of a forked tongue flickered at his ear for an brief instant, pressure only barely perceptible. Rus gasped, taken aback by the unexpected intimacy. The tip of a claw, so light as to be barely there, traced lazy patterns up his inner thigh base of his tail. Rus tensed, trying to stay still, and gave a quiet, pleading whimper around the bit in his mouth.

The attendant's hand came to rest on the metal plate at the base of Rus' tail. The subtle pressure made him clench involuntarily. As he struggled to relax, Rus heard the attendant's barely-audible chuckle of amusement. She grasped the metal plate, claws carefully avoiding the delicate tissue beneath. As the cord drew taut and smooth-scaled knuckles slid along the slick, over-sensitive flesh of his vent, Rus' tail curled upward, trembled, then flopped back down on the furs.

The gentle tension on the cord built, ever so slightly. The largest of the three beads shifted, pressing against him from the inside. The attendant's other hand came to rest, motionless, on Rus' belly, just to the side of his genital slit -- not pressing or holding, just feeling the reactions of his body. Rus ached for release, his cock painfully hard, impending orgasm battering against the magic that held it in check.

"Relax for me, won't you?" The hand on his belly gave a gentle caress, and the world seemed to shrink in on itself, until there was nothing but the touch and those words -- words that must be obeyed. Rus let his head fall back on the cushions, and his muscles gradually uncoiled.

The pull on the cord increased, slowly and inevitably. He felt the bead pulling him open, spreading, stretching. Waves of pleasure took him, the sensations overwhelming and novel. It felt nothing like the insertion. It was as though a huge lover were somehow taking him from the inside out. The pressure and pleasure built, nearly to the point of pain. Then, the cord went slack and the bead slid back into him, drawing a muffled cry of ecstasy from Rus' bound muzzle.

Two times more, the attendant pulled the ball nearly to the point of release then allowed it to slide back in. Rus was trembling uncontrollably under the attendant's hand, every nerve pleading for release as she toyed with him. Then, another pull, agonizingly slower than before, building to the a new peak... then the bead slid free with surprising ease. The remaining weighted balls slid within him, pressing and pushing. Rus moaned and writhed, feeling oil splash from inside him and flow down over his tail-base.

The attendant's hand patted his belly gently, two taps, in what Rus desperately hoped was meant to be an affirmation that he had done well. Another firm pull, and the two remaining beads slid free, nearly effortlessly, one after another. Rus went limp, exhausted, oil oozing from his slowly-closing vent.

One last flick of a forked tongue at his ear -- the barest hint of a touch, the memory of which would linger long in Rus' dreams -- and the attendant was gone again. He heard the two Dragons exchange a few more words with one another, not beside him, but also not far distant.

* * *

As much as Rus had enjoyed having the beads inside him, it was a relief to have them gone. The empty feeling under his tail was a welcome change, and he was grateful to not have every little motion driving him frustratingly toward an unattainable climax. He rolled onto one side and snuggled into the furs, relishing the feeling of the bindings on his head and forepaws.

He daydreamed, and may have dozed a little. At some point he became aware that the magical wall holding him back from orgasm had faded away. He couldn't pinpoint when it had happened, but the subtle tingle of spell-lines from his collar to his lower belly were gone.

With no warning, the attendant was behind him, hand on his painted shoulder and her neck draped over his own. Rus wanted so much to lean into the contact, rub against her, but was terrified of crossing some unknown boundary. She spoke again, voice soft and intoxicating. "Time to walk again. Just a little." The touch withdrew, and Rus clumsily stood, fumbling for footing with his bound forepaws. Then, her wing was over him again, guiding his blind steps.

It felt like a strange luxury to stand and walk with his tail modestly lowered. Rus felt a mounting excitement and anticipation. He'd gone only a few dozen steps, in what felt like close to a straight line, when they halted. "Give me your paw." He obediently lifted his left paw and held it out at chest height. A strong hand encircled his leather-bound wrist. "Now, up."

He didn't immediately understand what he was being asked to do, but the attendant lifted his bound left forepaw up and up, until his right forepaw lifted from the ground. He tried to balance on his hind legs, as she supported nearly a third of his weight, seemingly without effort. He felt his left paw carefully positioned, then came a snap as the binding ring was locked in place on something solid above him. The attendant released her grip, and the binding bore the weight.

Gentle pressure from a clawed hand at the small of his back guided Rus into a more vertical position, his left paw now level with his shoulders. She grasped his right paw, pulling it slowly up and to the side, giving Rus time to sidestep to keep his balance. Another click, and both hands were bound in place, at about the height of his shoulders, and separated by about twice the width of his body. It wasn't an uncomfortable or stressful position, though it would surely become so eventually.

A moment later, Rus felt the attendant's hands on his right leg, as she firmly bound a wide band of stiff leather around the muscle of his thigh. The process was repeated for his left leg. Then, smaller bands of a similar material were bound around his ankles. Rus closed his eyes in contentment, smiling around the bit in his mouth.

There were some noises of metal on metal, then a broad pressure on his back: two wide vertical lines, from shoulder to hip, conforming closely to the curve of his back. It felt like two large leather pads, stuffed quite firm but still yielding. There was a gap between, just enough to avoid pressing on the ridge of his spine.

For the space of a few breaths, Rus wondered about the purpose of all this. It was rapidly made clear as the entire apparatus pivoted, tipping him onto his back, his full weight supported by the leather pads. He was held at a shallow angle, shoulders higher than hips, head and tail free to drape down. He felt weirdly vulnerable, animal instincts shouting wordless warnings about his exposed belly. The feeling only intensified as his left knee was pulled upward toward his ribcage, then outward. A fastener snapped, and his leg was locked in position, splayed wide. The same was done for the right leg.

Rus' heart pounded. With his legs spread and tail hanging down at an angle, he was acutely aware of his exposed vent. His cock once again peeked out from the slit low on his belly.

Chains clanked, and he felt the weight as they were attached to the leather shackles at his ankles. Then, his hind feet were pulled inexorably back toward his hips. He still could still flex his knees a little, but could no longer kick his feet forward. Inside his mask, Rus' eyes were wide, gazing fruitlessly one direction then another into the leather-scented darkness. He felt his maleness growing fully hard, despite his unease. Warm oil dripped down from above, pooling in his genital slit and flowing over his vent. It had to be the attendant oiling him. The mental image Rus formed of this was intoxicating.

Her hand rested tenderly on his chest, for a moment only, a razor claw idly tapping the metal of his collar. "Serve well, little beast." The attendant wasn't quite singing, but the phrase was melodic, enticing. The hand withdrew. Rus could move his tail, head and (to an extent) his hind feet, but very little else.

* * *

Dragon spoke to Dragon, closer now.

Rus felt more than heard the heavy footsteps approach. Then, heavy keeled scales, warmth radiating from them, brushed over Rus' tail near the tip. They felt unfamiliar, but there was no mistaking that it was a Dragon. Rus trembled and his heart raced. The touch of a Dragon -- even brief, incidental touch -- was always a profoundly, staggeringly powerful experience. Every time was as intense as that first, decades ago. Coherent thought was impossible. Rus felt like he would drown in the feeling, like he would gladly do so.

The scales slid forward, bringing small moans from Rus, as the visitor stepped toward him. Two clawed hands -- they felt bigger than his lord's! -- pressed into Rus' inner thighs and grasped his legs. Rus arched his back, pushing into the touch, as the Dragon pressed and squeezed, taking in the firmness of Rus' flesh and the tone of his muscles. Rus felt the visitors breath on his belly, so warm. The hands withdrew briefly, then clasped Rus' hips. Something slick and heavy rested on Rus' abdomen, sliding over his sex. The new Dragon's cock! Rus ground against it, making small needy sounds in the back of his throat. It felt huge and heavy. The Dragon flexed his claws, the tips of talons pricking against Rus' hips as he enjoyed the little drake's desperation and neediness.

Then, the Dragon-cock slid, obscenely slowly, down Rus' heaving belly, stopping briefly with the tip resting at the base of his genital slit. It continued down until the broad point was touching the sensitive membranes of Rus' vent. Rus was frantic to thrust his hips, but couldn't move to do so. His nether opening constricted and relaxed rhythmically, trying to entice the big Dragon inside him.

Rus was not kept waiting.

The visitor pushed into him, impossibly strong, stretching Rus wide. His girth was just short of the largest of the beads Rus had take in earlier, and though the tumescent flesh was firm it was still softer than steel. But the top of the big Dragon's penis was a series of rounded ridges. Rus was stretched to his limit as each ridge passed inside him. He cried out with pain and pleasure as each fleshy bump pushed inside, his screams muffled almost to silence. A stream of saliva ran from the side of his mouth where the bit emerged from between his lips. Under his hood, his eyes were closed tight and watering.

Rus came, forcefully, hours of pent-up frustration spilling out, splashing his chest and throat, running down his sides. The visitor made a wordless rumble: **«Mmm.»**. He sounded pleased. He thrust again, powerfully, bottoming out in Rus' small body. He pulled back then thrust in again, the ribbed texture of his cock rasping against Rus' insides. Rus climaxed again, tail lashing against the floor, muscles straining in vain against his bonds, all but a trickle of ejaculate already spent.

The big Dragon worked in and out, going no deeper now but accelerating his thrusts, caring nothing for Rus' pain or pleasure, driving relentlessly toward his own orgasm. Rus was a plaything, a sex-beast to be used, no more than a vessel for the pleasure of another. The pounding forced Rus, agonizingly, to a third climax. He thrashed, uselessly.

The claws gripping his hips moved up to his sides. Their grip tightened, sharp points and serrated edges cutting into his hide, as the big Dragon leaned forward, belly-to-belly with the struggling drake, mass pressing Rus down into the cushions, pinning him. Rus felt he could not endure even one instant more, though part of him could not bear the thought of this ever ending.

The visitor's head darted forward, and he seized Rus' throat in his broad jaws, his teeth dozens of knife-points pressing into the drake's hide, just on the verge of cutting. The Dragon's exhalation was so hot it nearly burned, his low rumbling growl shaking the drake's body as it built in volume and intensity. This was not submission, yielding his body to a lover -- Rus learned in that moment what it was to be taken, as prey is taken.

The Dragon thrust forward a final time, the drake's flesh convulsing around him. Warm seed streamed into Rus' gut, flooding deep through his lower belly, the volume filling him to a bloated fullness.

The Dragon released Rus' throat, and Rus barely felt it as his head flopped limply down to the carpeted floor. The Dragon leaned back, weight no longer crushing Rus down, and the drake drew in a gasping breath. The visitor stood, gave a short barking cry of satisfaction, and pulled out roughly, the ridges of his sex abusing Rus' vent a final time. Spurts of warm wetness lashed Rus' chest and belly, mixing with the drake's own ejaculate. Fluid streamed out of his tail-hole. Sticky, viscous liquid ran down his flanks and sides, stinging as it found the claw-scratches over his ribs.

Rus lay limp, hanging in his bonds like a dead thing, language and thought fled over some far horizon. Every so often, his tail or flanks would twitch in an involuntary spasm. He drifted in and out of consciousness, insensible to the passage of time.

* * *

In gradual waves, Rus came back to awareness, and grew aware of large clawed hands -- Dragon hands, his lord's hands! -- cradling his hooded head and stroking his neck. The touch was gentle, tender, soothing; a wordless promise of safety and care. It told Rus, in a language that could express only truth, that he was treasured. Precious. Loved. Though he was blinded, he felt as though he were bathed in radiant golden light, warming him like the sun. He wept with the joy of it. His Dragon's tongue traced the curve of his neck, collar to chin, pure pleasure, deeply erotic yet also something nameless and far more profound.

The Dragon spoke aloud a single intricate syllable in the language of magic. As a supple palm delicately brushed the rows of small puncture wounds on Rus' neck, the sting of the cuts faded, replaced with a delicious tingling warmth. The Dragon kissed Rus' bound muzzle, then gently lowered the drake's head and stepped around to his sides, where he healed the deeper scrapes on Rus' sides and hips. The injuries had not been severe, nothing that wouldn't have healed with a little time, but Rus was grateful and humbled that his Dragon would spend such magic for his comfort.

A warm hand rested lightly on Rus' inner thigh, asking a silent question. A few slow heartbeats later, Rus' body answered for him as his arousal flooded back. He'd been sore, exhausted, utterly spent -- but he wanted this now, desired it, needed it. The hand grasped him, fondly, acknowledging his assent.

The Dragon's nose pressed into Rus' chest, feeling the drake's quickening heartbeat. Rus was acutely aware that he was a sticky mess, but the Dragon seemed to care not at all, kissing the drake's breastbone, his soft muzzle and warm tongue pressing into the mix of fluids. The kiss turned into a lick, exploring skin, sampling the liquids pooling there, tasting, savoring. Rus, veteran of an impressive catalog of sexual experiences no few of which had been quite public, felt an odd pang of intense self-consciousness. The Dragon's kisses became more passionate, tongue and now hands exploring Rus' torso, slick wetness spreading and mixing, as the seed of two creatures mixed with the saliva of a third.

The Dragon's tongue curled around Rus' cock, withdrew, brushed different points along his length, then slid into his slit, down one side and up the other. The drake moaned quietly, making tiny sounds of bliss and gratification, lost in contentment.

Now the tongue was on the underside of his tail, midway down, seeking, suckling at the smooth-scaled flesh. Rus curled his tail upward to meet the maw of his Dragon lover. Scaled hands caressed inside of Rus' splayed legs, as the Dragon's muscular tongue made long, lazy strokes along his tail, working gradually upward. Soon, it was lapping at Rus' vent, circling, teasing, probing. Rus relaxed completely, offering himself up, eagerly accepting the Dragon's tongue as it pushed inside, warm and soothing, turning bruised soreness into comfort and ease. It was beyond intimate, the Dragon expertly caressing each seat of pleasure within the drake's body, unhurriedly guiding him to euphoria, the sensations intense but never becoming unendurable.

After many lingering, rapturous minutes, the Dragon finally withdrew, giving Rus' trembling nethers a final lazy circle with the tip of his tongue. He shifted position, standing over Rus, wings mantled possessively over the drake's bound hind legs. The sleek taper of the Dragon's maleness rested briefly along Rus' tail, then slid delicately into him.

It was easy and comfortable, the Dragon's flesh filling Rus, completing him. Rus worshipped the Dragon's glory with his body, pulling and kneading, caressing the elegant curve of flesh moving gently inside him. He cared for nothing -- existed for nothing -- but the pleasure of his lover. The Dragon lapped at Rus' cock, then kissed his belly, his chest, his throat, gentle tongue and scaled lips leaving lingering bliss at the site of each brief touch.

Rus tried to remember his lessons, his studies, the long training sessions. But the Dragon's lovemaking had awakened in him something far older, and as the slow exquisite moments passed, Rus' careful craft and practiced technique gave way to animal lust as their passion grew.

Time stood still as Dragon and drake embraced, great immortal and little pleasure-beast, tails and necks entwining. They made their way together, building gradually but unstoppably to a shared climax. The orgasm took both of them together as one creature, in the same instant, like the force of an exploding star. Neither cried out; the feeling was far too profound to find expression in voice.

The Dragon held Rus, unmoving inside him, his seed a welcome, rapturous, silvery warmth in the drake's belly. Each could feel both heartbeats, the rapid pounding of Rus' pulse slipping in and out of time with the strong, measured rhythm in the Dragon's great armored chest.

Tail still entwined with that of his smaller lover, the Dragon pressed his forehead to Rus' chest, held it there, and quietly spoke the drake's name.

**«RUS.»**

The word was love, and belonging, and fulfillment of purpose. Rus belonged to his Dragon, and there could be no greater joy. He wanted to remember every instant, every sensation, but knew that no recollection would ever compare to that perfect moment.

As the Dragon gently pulled away, Rus made a sound, barely audible, of loss and longing.

* * *

Rus awoke, still in the great hall, sprawled on his side on the furs. Based on his mild but growing interest in food, he did not think more than a few hours had passed -- but he had no recollection of how he had gotten from the rack to the floor. His paws had been unbound, and his mask was now gone, and while his hide wasn't spotless, he had at least been toweled off at some point. He raised his head to look around. The hall was dimly lit, and all but a of the few celebrants who remained were resting or asleep, alone or in small groups.

Rus' movement disturbed the gryphon formel (only a clod would refer to her as a "hen") nestled against his chest. She gazed at him a moment, eyes intensely blue, her giant eagle's beak making her expression unreadable. Then, she lay back down, feathers soft against the drake's hide, head resting against Rus' throat. Something large and warm, covered in stiff fur, snuggled into Rus' back. He wasn't sure what creature it was, but certainly didn't object to the touch.

He reclined, soothed by the body-contact with his fellow beasts, knowing neither he nor they had remaining energy or inclination to think about sex-play now. This was simple mutual comfort, with no obligation or expectation of anything beyond.

As Rus drifted back to sleep, he thought of things to come: Rising in the morning, scandalously late, then another thorough bath. Certainly a hunt -- he'd be ravenous by afternoon, if not before. Some time sunning, if the weather allowed; a soak in a hot pool, else. Maybe even a tumbler of wine. Then, perhaps he'd be able to finish his book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 
>     INT. GENERIC DRAGON CAVE -- NIGHT
>     
>     Rus and a big green Dragon (whose name you never learn) stand somewhat
>     awkwardly side by side, staring directly into the camera.
>     
>                             RUS
>                     (perky and cheerful)
>             Hi! I'm Rus!
>                     (waves paw in friendly greeting)
>     
>                             GDWNYNL
>                     (deadpan, slow monotone, two octaves lower)
>             HE'S. RUS.
>     
>                             RUS
>             We had a lot of fun here in our little story!
>     
>                             GDWNYNL
>             FUN.
>     
>                             RUS
>             But in the real world, continuous, enthusiastic consent is always
>             super important! Every healthy relationship is built on mutual respect
>             and clear communication.
>     
>                             GDWNYNL
>             CONTINUOUS. ENTHUSIASTIC. CONSENT.
>                     (then quieter and much faster)
>             With no magical mind control.
>     
>                             RUS
>                     (turns to GDWNYNL, surprised)
>             Wait, wha
>                     (he is cut off mid-word by)
>     
>                                                     SMASH CUT TO
>     "The more you know..." GRAPHIC
>     


End file.
